


love me harder

by shenyanigan



Series: a crumb of context. [1]
Category: Persona 5
Genre: Aged Up, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, Fight Club AU, Handcuffs, M/M, Pain Kink, Possessive Language, Public Sex, Roleplay, Rough Sex, Subspace, established kink negotiation, face fucking, sort of. kinda. it's hard to explain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:29:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23885989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shenyanigan/pseuds/shenyanigan
Summary: most good things in life are red.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Series: a crumb of context. [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1721539
Comments: 15
Kudos: 214





	love me harder

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: what's depicted below is the result of two adults engaging in safe, sane, and enthusiastically consensual rough sex. heed the tags. if seeing akira be called a slut while he's getting railed by akechi's cock isn't your thing, i'm afraid this fic is not for you.
> 
> post-canon ish au/universe alteration wherein crow and joker live on as goro and akira's mma personas, and things heat up after their matches.

The bathroom in the club is red. The walls aren’t, but the floor, a maroon-like cherry wood melded into glass, and the lowlights that are hazing at blood orange and the sanguine spatters painting the chipped porcelain sinks make a cage of vibrance that envelopes Joker in its blinding bars. Or maybe that’s just Crow—who’d just slammed the rickety door nearly off its hinges when he pushed Joker inside—and his red, red eyes boring into Joker’s soul, his red, red lips pressing incessantly against Joker’s own.

Most good things in life are red.

Crow’s got Joker backed up against the sink counters— _on_ them, actually, since Crow gives him no room to do anything but sit down—one of the faucets digging into the bare flesh of his lower back, right next to his spine. It draws a whine from him that prompts Crow to thread his fingers in Joker's hair and tug. His head smacks the mirror behind him with a force that makes Joker’s brain rattle inside his skull.

“No talking,” Crow barks, his fingers tightening their hold. Joker swoons.

“Someone’s a sore loser,” he slurs, lets his tongue peak between his teeth just so.

“I said,” Crow gets a leather-clad hand around Joker’s neck, a tight hold forming around the air that was midway to his lungs, “no talking.”

Whatever breath was left in his mouth sputters out as Crow presses him back all the way up against the glass. Dots dance over his eyes. But then the hand is gone, and just as Joker's catching his breath, he's gasping it back out: Crow manhandles the front of Joker's jeans, open-palmed, and Joker hisses from the pressure, so quick and intense when he's already aching.

“So that’s all it takes, huh?” Crow’s voice is as rough and callous as Joker’s jeans, grating against his eardrum, sending shivers up his spine. “You like it when I smack you around.”

It is not a question, so Joker’s groan is not an answer, so much as it is its own statement. His grip on the counter tightens when Crow noses along the column of his neck, and a hiss escapes him when Crow finds his proper place—right in the middle, where the jugular sits—and bites down, _hard_ , sucking the remaining skin with a force that siphons the steadiness from Joker’s eyes.

"You're just—ah!—pissed that I kicked your ass," he replies. Which is true. Joker _did_ kick his ass; Crow might have gotten a clean hit in, but Joker was the one on top when all was said and done. Pinned him right to the cold concrete, arms over his head.

Crow releases Joker's neck with a wet smacking sound, tongue running along what Joker is sure will be a mark. "Is that a fact?" He swipes one of his thumbs over the line of Joker's cock, a firm press down as he reaches the head. Fuck. Joker's hips buck before he can get a hold of himself.

Crow steps back out of Joker's space, his calculated gaze raking over Joker. The hair he'd pulled up into a ponytail before their match is loose now, frizzing at the top and curling at the bottom. His cheeks are flushed, bangs drenched with sweat, sticking to his forehead in parts while hanging over his eyes in others. The white tank top he always wears in the ring is sweat-drenched, too, slick and plastered to his chest. His breathing is labored enough that Joker can see every inch of skin, almost like he were wearing no shirt at all. Nothing makes it more obvious what Crow's extracurriculars are than the aftermath of one of their fights, and seeing him like this, looking at Joker with eyes that hunt, that devour, that _dare_ him to open his smart mouth one more fucking time—if he knew what was good for him, he'd be a good boy. Keep his comments to himself.

Luckily, Joker's never been a good boy. "You're not denying it."

That gives the other man pause, it seems. "You know," Crow says thoughtfully, running one of his gloved hands along his chin. "I could leave you in here like this. I don't have to take care of you."

"Oh?" Joker lets out a breathy chuckle. "Is that a threat?"

Crow hums, sauntering back between Joker's legs. "I suppose you'd get on your knees for anyone, wouldn't you?"

"I think they'd get on their knees for me," Joker replies. He licks his lips, as the bait forms on his tongue. "And I'd let them. You think you're the only one who could show me a good time?"

At that, Crow's eyes get dark, fists clenching at his sides. Sucker. But then—oh, Joker's eating those words now, because Crow's got his mouth on Joker's in no time at all, biting down so hard, Joker can taste his own blood. Joker whimpers, the pain dancing on his nerves, lighting him up with shivers.

Crow tears himself away with a growl, only to get a hand in Joker's hair and tug him closer, their noses mashing together. "Oh, I know am," his breath is so hot on Joker's face, it makes his burning skin feel cold. "Nobody else would handle a slutty brat like you."

With this, he leaves no room for argument. Crow gets Joker locked in another searing kiss, taking hold of Joker's bottom lip and sucking. The wound burns under the suction force, but so does Joker's scalp from the way Crow's got his fist twisted in it, pulling it taut with every tiny move. Crow's other hand is skating down Joker's ribs now, too, playing with the edge of the mesh Joker wears as a top around the club. All the sensation has Joker arching, squirming, and Crow only licks into his mouth in response. It's only when he gets two gloved fingers around Joker's tender nipple that he lets out any sound at all—a dark, nigh unhinged chuckle that vibrates against against Joker's lips—because Joker can't help the moan that spills from him.

"Just one touch, and all your tough talk is gone, huh?" Crow sounds so sweet, words candied. "Pathetic. You're such a cheap whore," he twists the nipple, and Joker gasps, blood spiraling down his body. "Give me one good reason to stay."

Crow yanks Joker forward so they're close again, wrapped in each other's space. There's the beginning of fuzz at the edge of his mind, the telltale signs of an oncoming haze, endorphins and dopamine slurrying. But no, not yet, not quite. He doesn't go down that easy, not when Crow's not all the way in. Joker simpers oh-so-sweetly, leaning even further forward so his breath can hit Crow's cheeks this time. "I'll say please," he purrs, " _sir._ "

Ah, see, Joker can still get the upper hand, even like this. Crow lets loose a shudder at that, and even if it weren't visible in the tremors of his shoulders, Joker can feel it in the fingers still tangled in his hair, through the leather rolling his nipple raw. "Oh?" he titters, finally taking one of his hands off the counter, brushing his knuckles over Crow's cheek. "Did I hit a nerve there, sir?"

Crow's smile is accompanied by an eye twitch. It's all Joker needs to goad him further.

"Bet you'd like it if I called you Daddy, h—mmph!"

Crow's grip on Joker's jaw is merciless. Joker still grins regardless, with what little control of his muscles he has, while Crow looks on with the most venomous of smiles. "I see what this is. You want to be punished," he squeezes Joker's jaw, pain ricocheting up the bones, "don't you?"

Finally. "Catching on now, aren't you?"

Crow takes his hand away, studying. "There are easier ways to get what you want, you know," he says, tugging on one of his gloves.

Joker grins. "Aww, did you hope I would beg for it, _Daddy_?" Joker kicks his legs a little, leaning back on his hands. Crow ignores him this time, peeling off his shirt. Joker takes his voice up an octave, dousing it in saccharine whines. "Pretty please, sir, punish me! I've been a very bad boy; I need Daddy's c—"

This time, when Crow shuts him up, it's not with his hand, but his tank top. Somehow, amidst all the mocking, Joker missed Crow rolling the wet fabric into a tight coil, so by the time he does see it, it's being tied around his face, salty cotton suddenly stuffed far into his mouth. Immediately, something heady and warm fills Joker's senses, smelling like sweat and the way candles tell you vanilla smells, tasting like one too many cigarettes and spilled sake. Crow.

"That ought to keep you quiet," Crow huffs. He yanks Joker off the counter by the wrist, holding it high above his head as if Joker is actually resisting. Well, he supposes he does a _little_ , tugging his arm back and forth as he staggers to his feet, trying to smile coyly with his eyes, since his mouth is preoccupied. But he barely has any leverage: Crow's grip is tight, and it gets tighter as he twirls Joker around to face away, the sound of scraping gears behind him. Joker only has a minute to ponder what that might be before it's answered: shackles hang in front of his face, dangling on two of Crow's long fingers. Joker squints. Where did he even hide those?

It doesn't really matter. Once he's had a chance to see them, his arm is thrust behind his back, the warmed leather around his wrists shifting to cold, unforgiving metal. Joker's just about squared away in his new chains when the fabric around his face loosens just a tad. His head is turned for him, the eyes meeting his a quieter sort of garnet, an inquisitive one. Not Crow's, but... "Good?"

Joker's chest goes warm, as do his cheeks. He always does that when they break out the handcuffs. It's so cute. "Good," Joker breathes. "Really good."

"Splendid."

The tank top is back, but this time it wraps round his eyes with a wet slap, stealing his vision and knocking him off balance with the force. "Now," Crow's voice is back to Crow's, commanding and quick. Joker's knees are growing weak. "We have some business to attend to, starting," he puts both of his hands on Joker's hips, balling around the waistband of his jeans, "with these _hideous_ pants," tearing them all the way down Joker's legs. Which. They're jeans that _he_ picked out, but whatever. Crow tuts, pulling Joker back to step out of the fabric, kicking it away once Joker's feet have cleared.

"Really, Joker?" A swat across his ass, then Crow takes a hand full and squishes. Joker barely fights against the moan in his throat. "A lace g-string? God, you really _are_ a slut."

The moan turns to an extended whimper as Crow's fingers knead into the flesh. He buckles under the weight of wanting it all, cock aching, chaffing against even the delicate lace.

"On your knees," Crow barks.

"Ha," Joker breathes out. "G-Gladly."

Crow rams what must be his own knee into the small of Joker's back, right next to his spine, and pushes him to the floor. Joker shudders, sharp pain shooting up his thighs from the unpadded collision. Hazey dazey. Sounds blur together: one of the faucets has a drip, Crow's shoes clack on the tile floor as he moves from behind to somewhere in front of Joker. There's muffled commotion outside the bathroom, too, voices, music. A beat, thrumming through the walls. But the brightest sound is the reedy red warmth Crow's timbre provides.

"I wonder... how exactly should I punish you?" Crow muses aloud, a sing-song lilt, and Joker can just picture him in that classic Detective Prince pose, tapping his finger on his lips as he tries to deduce. "A spanking seems too good for you," his fingers thread in Joker's hair. "And I could fuck you into next week, but... that seems a little too good for you, too. What to do, what to do..." He hums and haws, jerking Joker's head left, right, left, right. Joker's not sure what he's dizzier from: the rolling of his neck or the pain trickling down his scalp, sinking into his brain. "Ah!"

Sudden, animalistic delight crackles in the air. Joker is dragged across the floor a bit, to where he's not sure, but the friction hurts his knobby knees, has his cock twitching from it all. "Since you want to mouth off so much," Crow says, dripping with glee, "why don't I put it to good use?"

Good...use? Joker wrinkles his eyebrows, cold dampness wrinkling with them, sticking to his face as he moves. He tries to parse out the meaning, word by word, but then it comes to him loud and clear: Crow's shoe slams right onto his crotch, smushing his erection to his stomach, and the moment Joker's mouth drops open in pain, it's filled once more, this time with something fleshy and thick and hot, weighing heavy on his tongue. It has Joker moaning before he can think better of it.

"Ah-ah!" Crow thrusts forwards, hard, smacking the back of Joker's throat with the head of his cock, while his sharp, cold heel grinds down on the base of Joker's. Joker yelps. "None of that. You're being punished, remember?"

Crow starts off slow: his deft, strong, gloved hands are both curled into Joker's bangs, holding his head in place as he rocks his hips forward, feeling out every inch of Joker's mouth, from the hollow of his cheeks, to the very back of his throat. He must be propping himself up against something. The counters, maybe? The faucet is singing louder somewhere behind Crow's cock, leisurely leak in time with his thrusts. _Drip... Drip... Drip..._

A hand smacks on the door. A voice yells something loud, something something Joker something. Crow's laugh is branding, burning the insides of Joker's ears the way a too-hot meal sears the mouth of the starving. "Hear that? They're looking for you," another bite, just another bite. "Could you imagine what they'd think if they saw you like this? On your knees, mouth full of cock?"

 _Drip..._ What would that be like? Most people know this little routine of theirs enough to stay away, having gotten an eyeful of a half-naked Joker clutched to the chest of a possessive Crow, but even still. There are newcomers sometimes. What would they see stumbling through the door? Joker, blind, spit dribbling down his face, hands chained behind his back while he's used as a fuck doll? What would they think of him? Strong, competent fighter Joker becoming nothing more than a warm hole to be debauched by the man bracing himself up on the sink counters. _Drip..._

Joker quivers, precome blurting from his tip. "Of course that excites a whore like you," did Crow feel him twitch, even through the hard sole of his shoe? "You want to put on a show for the whole world, don't you?"

Maybe. _Drip._ Maybe he would. _Drip_. Or maybe he just likes how that thought makes Crow slam into him harder, like his cock can sear Joker's insides with his name. _Drip_.

Crow fucking his mouth is a lot different than other places. The spot he hits when he thrusts makes Joker's stomach flip sometimes, rather than twist, nausea traipsing up his body rather than curling heat pooling in his core. _Drip_. Both feelings make him leak regardless. _Drip_. Wetness joins dampness with his eyes, tears constellating on his cheeks like freckles. _Drip_. The ragged inhales he sucks through his nose reek of sex, of sweat, of the dried blood still left in a nostril from the right hook Crow landed earlier. _Drip_. Of the musk and the spit and the salt of Crow, Crow, Crow. _Drip, drip, drip._

More pain rockets up his spine, pins and needles settling into his ankles, his feet. _Drip_. Joker doesn't mind— _drip_ —has no mind in fact, right now— _drip_ —nothing with which to think— _drip—_ to keep track of anything other than sensation, other than the _drip_ and it's amazing, it's thrilling to suddenly be _drip_. Nothing matters but this moment, but this _drip_ , but the fullness sliding up and _drip_ his throat. Nothing matters but the groans Crow can't _drip_ out of his voice, the pleasure Joker can _drip_ him, even when he's nothing but a _drip_ , nothing but a tool.

He can't help it. He mewls. And it vibrates.

"Fuck, Ak— _Joker_ , you're so—" Crow _drips_. "Fuck—"

_dripdripdrip—_

Something sweet and bitter and _dripping_ pitter-patters down his esophagus in ropes, in shudders, and Joker can barely breathe, the liquid filling up all his senses, smell burying itself in his naval cavity, taste slipping into his tongue while squelches make their way up to his ear from his aching jaw. Crow's cock is softening but Joker holds it in his mouth anyways, sucking on it once. Crow hisses at that, pressing Joker's forehead back and pulling him off.

Sight returns to him slowly. The tank top falls to the ground with a splat, but Joker's still looking at the orange his eyelids provide until leather brushes up against his cheek. Then his vision is taken over by red again. Heaving cherry chest. Flush stained neck and cheeks. Deep, unyielding russet eyes. The world is a spinning set of pinpricks, of furry outlines and fuzzing pixels, but Crow is the loudest thing he's ever seen.

"Who do you belong to?" Crow asks. He is braced against the counter after all, it looks like, with how he's leaned back.

"You," Joker murmurs. His voice is gravel now, a road recently unpaved, a track torn to shreds. He's pulled to his feet by the root of his hair, but they give out almost immediately. Crow catches him around the waist, yanking his head back so they're eye to eye.

"You _what_?"

Joker whimpers. "You, s-sir," and finally, finally he's gifted a smile. Crow wipes away some of the spit by his mouth.

"Good boy," his palm comes to rest on the front of Joker's thong, pushing gently, and Joker keens, still so tight, so high-strung with need. "Now, then. Let's see if you've earned _Daddy's_ cock."

* * *

Hours later, Akira Kurusu steps into his apartment to find the light already on, and coffee scenting the air. There, sitting at the little table next to the kitchen, is his boyfriend, Goro Akechi, mug in one hand, book in the other.

“I’m back,” he rasps, his throat still utterly destroyed. He presses a kiss to the crown of Goro’s head. Goro doesn’t look up from his book, but he reaches, giving Akira’s hand a firm squeeze. It’s so much softer without the gloves.

“Welcome home,” he says, and then tuts when Akira tries to move away, getting up from his chair in the process. “Ah-ah.”

He tugs at the bottom of Akira’s over-shirt, a quiet “may I?” gesture that Akira doesn’t deny, before shucking it up. The bruise on Akira’s left side is purpling and spreading. Goro’s eyes grow dark.

“It looks worse than it is,” Akira says, dipping his wrecked voice in nonchalance. “I bruise like a peach, you know.”

He points to the mark on his neck, the one that’s also gone all sorts of colors, the one that Goro had laved his tongue over to soothe the skin when he was done. Goro doesn’t even acknowledge the joke, brushing his knuckles against the bruise’s navy epicenter, right above his hip-bone. Akira flinches away out of reflex more than anything else.

“I shouldn’t have gone for that kind of move. Although,” he says, gaze flicking up to meet Akira’s for a moment. “I’d expected your guard to be better.”

“What can I say? You surprise me.”

Goro hums thoughtfully. “Do I?” Then, without ceremony or warning, he _smacks_ the bruise with his bare palm. The squawk that spills from Akira is only quelled by the moan he barely bites back when fingers come to rest on his burning flesh and squeeze.

Akira’s eyes are barely cracked enough to see Goro’s wide grin, ripping against the softness in his cheeks. “I suppose I do,” he husks, right at the shell of Akira's ear. Shivers fly up his spine, the telltale twist in his gut already returning. "Maybe I should take care of these wounds for you..." A kiss, pressed to the junction near his jaw. "They seem awfully painful." A nibble at the top of Akira's earlobe—not painful, but still sharp. Tingly. "Would you like that, _Joker_?"

The shivers just don't stop, do they? Not when Goro says things like that, not when they wiggle their way into his ear, nesting inside. Akira can only nod.

"Good," Goro pulls back a little, and Akira assumes that'll be to knock him back against the wall, but instead, he cups Akira's face in his hands and just... looks at him. The hard edge is tucked away, replaced by a gentleness that reminds Akira of Sunday mornings, when the light filters through the blinds and wakes Akira to a bed that is, for once, not lonely and cold. When their lips meet briefly, it is every bit as warming as the memories playing in his head.

"I'll be down the hall," Goro says over his shoulder as he walks away, beautiful, half-lidded eyes gleaming in the light of the kitchen— _their_ kitchen. "in case you're up for a challenge."

Akira smirks at that.

When has he ever said no to a challenge?

**Author's Note:**

> if you wanna yell at me about shuake head on over to my twitter/tumblr @vintgecassette


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